


turning toward it again and again

by Damkianna



Category: Dark Matter (TV)
Genre: Bad Flirting, Extra Treat, M/M, Miscommunication, Time Loop, Trick or Treat: Chocolate Box, Trick or Treat: Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 12:10:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12365499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: Six is sitting in the ship's mess when Three comes in. Except for the times he's in the hallway. Or he comes and finds Three; or Three goes and finds him.Not that it matters, since he can't remember any of it anyway.(AU: For ~reasons, Six is on the ship when the time loop happens, which means Three finally has the time he needs to figure something out.)





	turning toward it again and again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [days4daisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/gifts).



> Your prompts for this pairing were delightful, days4daisy! I'm just sorry I couldn't fit more than Three hitting on Six during the time loop and a little drunken handsiness into this treat. :D Hope you enjoy it, and happy ToT!
> 
> (Title adapted from the poem "[A Small-Sized Mystery](https://writersalmanac.org/episodes/20170228/)", by Jane Hirschfield.)

 

 

* * *

 

Six is sitting in the ship's mess, just polishing off a plate of marginally appealing green ration packet, when Three comes in. He looks weird, Six thinks, and then allows himself the obvious joke: more so than usual. Unsettled, even jumpy, gaze flicking around the mess like he thinks there'll be an ambush any moment.

He was acting strange earlier, too. Got in an argument with Two, yelling about how she'd already _found_ her holster and there was no reason for her to be getting on his case—he'd sounded strained, a little panicky. Six had told him to just calm down a little, but needless to say he hadn't taken that well.

And he won't take it well if Six keeps staring at him, either, so Six drops his gaze back to his plate and chews, swallows, scrapes his fork around the edges to catch the last few mashed-up crumbs. Conspicuous inattention always seems to work better with Three than talking to him.

But then Three pulls out the chair across from Six, and even coming from him, that's an invitation.

Six glances at him, quick, just enough to catch how he's looking out into the middle distance, the absent unsteady way he's rubbing a thumb across his mouth. And then Six looks studiously back down at the table, and, as if the answer isn't important to him at all, says gently, "You okay?"

Three startles a little, enough to give Six an excuse to look up at him again: he's staring at Six and frowning, eyes wary. "You didn't ask me that last time."

Six blinks. "What?"

"You didn't—no," Three interrupts himself, "you know what? Never mind. Never mind, it's not important. I'm just having a really weird day. A couple of really weird days."

"And how's the forecast looking for tomorrow?" Six says, mild.

Three snorts. "I'll let you know when I get there," he mutters.

He almost looked okay for a second there; but then he goes quiet, a shadow settling around his eyes, and his mouth has flattened unhappily.

Six twists his fork around once, twice, in his hand. Talking never works with Three, he reminds himself sternly. Not for him.

Except Three's sitting across from him with an expression on his face that looks like that, and Six can't just pretend he doesn't see it. He can't.

"Whatever it is," he says, "you know you could tell me, right?"

Three rolls his eyes. "Yeah, right. Like I need to hand you an excuse to call me a crazy asshole—"

"If you say things a crazy asshole would say," Six agrees, "then yeah, I'll call it like I see it. But I'll still listen to it. You know that, don't you? Even if it's ridiculous, even if I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, if you just need it to get heard—I'll listen."

Three stares at him. For a split second something flashes across his face that almost makes Six think—but no, it's gone, it's gone and maybe it was never there at all, because Three just snorts again and looks away. "Yeah," he says again, sharp and a little bitter. "Right," and then he pushes back from the table and swings up out of his chair, one motion, and stalks out of the mess.

Six watches him go and sighs, dropping his fork and leaning back in his chair. Yeah, that went about how he'd expected. He should've known. It's just—

It's just he can't help it. He can't help wanting to reach out for Three, over and over, no matter how many times Three walks away.

Maybe _he's_ the crazy one, he thinks, rubbing the bridge of his nose. And then he collects his dishes and goes to load them into the sonic scrubber. After he starts it up, he just stands there for a second, hand pressed to the counter, listening to the hum; and if he lets himself imagine, grimly self-indulgent, that underneath it he can just hear Three's footsteps coming back along the corridor—

Well. Nobody has to know.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Six is sitting in the ship's mess, just polishing off a plate of marginally appealing green ration packet, when Three comes in.

"Oh, fuck, that's right," Three says, rocking halfway back on his heels and rubbing at his eyes. "I forgot you'd be in here—"

"Right," Six says blandly. "Because you knew already. Because of the 'time loop'."

He doesn't know exactly what he's expecting. Mostly for Three to make fun of him somehow—to keep pushing it, keep spinning this ridiculous bullshit of his out so far they're all sick of it, because that's what Three always does. If anybody can be counted on to ignore the limits of sense, taste, and common decency for the sake of driving a joke into the ground, it's Three.

That had certainly been the way things seemed to be leaning during their impromptu crew meeting this morning, when Three had first called them all up on the comms to say he really needed to talk to them. Back and forth between almost convincing, smug and glib, and the wavering moments where he hadn't had an answer prepared—because of course Three didn't even plan properly for his own weird practical jokes. But he hadn't given it up even when Two had called him on it, had kept protesting even after she'd shaken her head and left.

And coming in with a line like that— _I forgot you'd be in here_. He's got to be trying to start the whole thing up again, Six thinks. And when he does, Six is more than ready to tell him to quit screwing around.

Except that's not what happens.

Three just stands there in the doorway, head bowed, eyes closed, thumb digging in a little at the inner corner of one eye like maybe he's got a headache coming on.

He looks—tired.

"Hey," Six says, tone gentler.

But it's too late to do him any good; when Three looks up at last, his stare's sharp and his mouth's flat, jaw tense. "You can be a real dick, you know," he snaps.

"Yeah," Six agrees carefully. Can't really argue with that.

" _Yeah_ ," Three echoes, deliberately mocking. "That fucking easy for you, huh? Just admit you screwed up and that wipes it away, clean slate, everybody's supposed to trust you again—"

Six stares at him. Hadn't they settled all this? "Look, what's this really about?"

"What the hell do you mean, 'what's this really about'?" Three stabs a finger in Six's direction, accusing. " _You're_ the one who turned us all in to the GA, but somehow _I'm_ still the one nobody listens to—"

"Because you told us the day was repeating itself! Come on, Three, you can hardly expect us to just—"

"They would if it was you!" Three says furiously. "Don't try to tell me they wouldn't, if it was you."

Six hesitates. They would—but they'd have a reason. What is Three asking for, anyway? Is Six supposed to apologize or something, for not seeming like the kind of person who'd make stuff up for his own petty amusement? But he can't say _that_ , not when Three's already upset. That would just be cruel, and—

And, truth be told, Three doesn't seem real amused right now.

"Three—"

Three laughs, sharp, cutting him off. "Yeah, I figured," he mutters. "Not much you can say to that, huh?"

"Three," Six says firmly, "if there's something going on with you, just talk to us about it. Just _talk_ to me. You don't have to set up some kind of big elaborate joke—"

"For fuck's sake, how many times do I have to—it's _not a goddamn joke_ ," Three shouts, lunging forward to slap one palm sharply against the table.

Six doesn't flinch, and he can admit it's half because Three might want him to. He can be almost as contrary as Three, in his own way.

At least he's quieter about it, he tells himself.

He looks up at Three steadily for a beat, and then down at his plate, and deliberately takes a moment to scrape his fork around the edges for the last of the mashed-up crumbs. "Fine," he says. "Have it your way," and then he collects his dishes and goes to load them into the sonic scrubber. After he starts it up, he just stands there for a second, hand pressed to the counter, waiting for Three to start screaming at him again over the hum of it.

But when he turns around again, Three's gone.

Probably for the best anyway, Six thinks, and ignores the wistful ache that's settled into his chest.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Six is sitting in the ship's mess, just polishing off a plate of less-than-appealing blue ration packet, when Two comes in.

"Seen Three anywhere?" she asks, glancing around like he might be hiding underneath the table.

"No," Six says, frowning. "Why?"

"He's not answering," Two says, with a brief explanatory touch to her earpiece.

Six raises his eyebrows. "On purpose?"

Two huffs, half irritation and half amusement. "Bastard stole my holster and hid it somewhere," she says. "He's not ignoring me by mistake."

Six snorts. Does kind of sound like something Three might do. He glances down at his plate, and decides he might as well be done. No point scraping up the last few crumbs, not from a blue ration packet. "Where've you looked already?" he says.

They divide up everywhere she hasn't. No sign of Three in the whole stretch of port-side corridors Six agreed to check, or in the armory, or in the two fore portside bays; but Six has to go through the main cargo area to get to the aft pair, and he takes two steps in and hears a telltale clink.

He sighs. "Three?" he says.

The clinking stops. And then, after a beat of silence, starts up again. "Hey, there," someone slurs from behind a stack of crates. Six sighs and rounds them, rubbing a thumb across his forehead, already pretty sure he knows what he's going to find.

And, sure enough: it's Three. Pouring, with bleary concentration—three more clinks, as his hand wavers, the lip of whatever bottle he's dug out knocking his cup and then wandering away again, and then apparently he decides he's satisfied. With the exaggerated care of the mildly sloshed, he tips the bottle right way up and sets it down, and then picks up his cup and raises it in Six's general direction.

"Cheers," he mutters, and knocks the whole thing back in one go.

"How many of those have you had?" Six asks evenly.

"Not enough, my friend," Three says, with a lopsided grin. "Not. Enough."

"Three—"

"Oh, don't get your panties in a twist." Three flaps a dismissive hand toward him. "Barely even gotten started."

"Let's save speculation about the state of my panties for another time," Six says, dry. "Two's looking for you."

Three squints up at him vaguely, and then tips his head back and nods sagely. "Right, right," he says. "Holster. Nightstand."

"Nightstand?"

"That's where it is," Three explains. "Behind her nightstand. Wasn't me."

"Mmhmm."

" _Wasn't_ ," Three insists, and then reaches for the bottle again. He looks at his cup and seems to consider the logistics of trying to pour again, and then shakes his head and lifts the bottle—

"Whoa, hey, take a break," Six says, leaning down to grab the bottom of it, twisting it neatly out of Three's grip before he can wrap his mouth around the lip.

"No, no, come on," Three says, and then, nonsensically, "it's not like it's going to stay drunk! It'll all be back in the bottle once I go to sleep."

"And you said you hadn't had that much," Six mutters, lifting the bottle up out of Three's reach and raising an eyebrow.

"I haven't," Three says plaintively, and then drops his head into his hands. "Too much of just about everything else, but definitely not enough of that."

"Right," Six says, studying him. With his head down, rubbing at his eyes like that, he doesn't look obnoxious, or frustrating, or even particularly drunk; he just looks sort of tired.

And then he glances up at Six, and lurches up with a groan to grab after the bottle. Six just barely manages to swing his arm back, an awkward game of keep-away; and all that gets him is Three's clumsy hands landing at his waist, fingers curling into his shirt, his belt—

"Oh, come on, have some pity," Three whines, and Six swallows a noise he definitely shouldn't make as Three leans unsteadily into him.

"I don't think so," Six says instead, keeping his voice steady; and he can feel Three huff out an irritated breath against his shirt, his chest.

"You just want it for yourself," Three mutters, and then snorts. "No, who am I kidding, of course you don't. You don't _get_ drunk. Goddamn goody-two-shoes—"

"I get drunk," Six argues, as if it's somehow important for Three to understand that, for Three not to think—not to think Six doesn't get it.

Three leans into him even harder for a moment, working his way to his feet; but his fingers stay where they are, hooked into Six's waistband, the backs dragging a little against the skin at Six's hip—

"And then it's open season to speculate on the state of your panties, I hope," Three says unsteadily, with a loose smug leer.

It's nothing Six shouldn't have expected. No good reason for the sick sour disappointment welling up in his throat, bitter at the back of his mouth. Three's always like this. It's nothing personal.

Somehow that thought doesn't ease the sting much.

"Not for you," Six says flatly, and steps away.

"Aw, c'mon—hey—"

Six locks eyes with Three, and keeps his expression pleasant and impersonal as he turns the bottle over, letting the contents splash out against the cargo bay floor. "Yours if you want it," he says, and then turns and walks out.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Six is sitting in the ship's mess, halfway through a plate of marginally appealing green ration packet, when Five comes in. "Hey," she says, and smiles, and it's so thin and perfunctory that Six knows immediately that something's wrong.

Never mind that she's wringing her hands a little, too, tilting her head and biting at the corner of her mouth.

"Hey," Six says, setting his fork down against his plate and leaning forward. "What's the matter?"

"Well, it's—it's Three," Five says, a little apologetically. "I passed him in the hallway earlier and it was—he was weird."

"It's Three," Six points out, deliberately light, which gets him a briefly brighter smile before Five falters again.

"Yeah," Five agrees. "But—I don't know. Couldn't you just see if you can find him? Two's already looking for him, I think, but she hasn't had any luck. What if there's really something wrong?"

Six looks down at his plate, and then up at Five's big pleading eyes, and sighs. He's still kind of hungry, but then again the rations will still be here once he's figured out whatever the hell is wrong with Three. Reheating doesn't improve them, but it also won't make them any worse.

"Okay, okay," Six says aloud, "I'll see what I can do."

Five breathes out slow, and then smiles at him for real. "Thanks, Six."

"Sure," he says, standing, and pats her on the shoulder as he goes by, already trying to guess where Three might be.

It takes a few tries, but at last Six catches the vaguest smell of alcohol—and any smell at all is unusual, with the _Raza_ 's stale, recycled, thoroughly-scrubbed air. It gets stronger, weaker, and then stronger again; and then overpowering, and when Six finally reaches the source of it, he can see why.

It's Three, because of course it is. There's a line of empty bottles next to him, and his progress through them is visible not just in the length of the line itself, but the way it's set out: the first three bottles are neat, aligned, and then the fourth zigs just slightly to one side, the fifth zagging, and it's not much of a line anymore by the sixth.

Must have started with something light, Six thinks grimly, or he'd already have alcohol poisoning.

And Three's lying on the floor with his eyes closed, and the half-empty seventh in his hand.

"Really?" Six says aloud, crossing his arms.

Three shifts and makes an indistinct sound, and then cracks an eye open. "Oh, 's you."

"Yeah," Six agrees. "How long have you been here?"

"Don't know," Three mutters. "You tell me—'s it tomorrow yet?"

"Oh, I'm pretty sure it's still today," Six tells him.

Three's mouth pinches flat, and he closes his eyes again. "Not long 'nough, then," he says, with a pungent sigh.

Six wrinkles his nose, and eyes Three for a minute. Almost tempting to leave him to it, if only to watch him struggle through the hangover later, but—

But he can't quite talk himself into it.

He crouches down instead, close enough to wrest the seventh bottle out of Three's hand; and Three's reflexes have been slowed enough that even when he realizes what Six is doing, he can't tighten his grip on the bottle quick enough to stop it. "Hey!"

"I think you've had enough," Six says, and leans away to set the bottle down, well out of Three's reach.

"Aah, what d'you know about it," Three sneers, grabbing halfheartedly after the bottle; he only gets a handful of Six's thigh instead, and then—

Then he doesn't let go, doesn't move. Six's hand tenses, involuntary, around the neck of the bottle, but he manages to keep from breaking it.

Three hums, half a sigh, slides his hand a little higher. For an instant, Six can almost picture moving closer, kneeling over him, letting Three's hand wander wherever it wants to go as he settles himself across Three's hips and lets his head fall back—

Three's hammered, Six reminds himself, and he knocks Three's hand away sharply and then raises an eyebrow at Three's noise of protest.

"What? Y'got—y'got real nice thighs, y'know that? Goin' to get you some holsters like Two's, just to watch you buckle 'em. Your fuckin'—fuckin' _hands_ , goddamn—"

"You have got to be kidding me," Six says flatly.

"No way," Three protests, earnest, squinting up at him uncertainly. "No way, what d'you—'s true. Just don't tell you, 's all. Don't tell you, most of the time, you'd—you'd punch me in the face." Three pauses, clearly deep in thought. "You goin' t'punch me in the face?"

"Tempting," Six tells him, "but no."

"Really," Three drawls, eyeing Six speculatively, and then he reaches out again—both hands, this time—for Six's belt, and—

"Not doing that either," Six says firmly.

Three blinks at him, looking bewildered. "Why not?"

As if that question doesn't have a dozen good answers—fifty, a hundred. As if half of them can't be summed up by the combination of exasperated anger and slow cold resignation filling Six's chest.

"Come on," Six says, instead of giving Three any of them, and hooks a hand under Three's shoulders.

"What? Where? Don't want to get up, you—let go, let go—"

"Nope," Six says. "I want you in the infirmary before you start throwing up, not after."

"I'm _fine_ , I'm fine, you—hey!"

"Up," Six says, and doesn't let himself dwell on the feeling of Three's weight against him, Three's hands on his.

No point.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Six is headed for the ship's mess, trying to remember how many green ration packets are left, when he runs into Three in the corridor.

"Hey, hot stuff," Three says, with a truly horrible leer, and then, of all things, unleashes double finger guns. Six almost envies him his sheer unabashed shamelessness. "Headed to the mess, right? Hungry? Because I've got some serious meat—"

"I'm going to do you a favor and pretend this never happened," Six tells him kindly, and keeps walking.

"What? No, wait—oh, come on! How could this possibly have worked better when I was _drunk_ than—"

Weird, Six thinks, shaking his head as he keeps walking. Three hasn't gotten smashed around Six in at least a few weeks.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Six has just walked into the ship's mess when Three catches up with him, jogging up from the other end of the corridor. "Hey," Three says, "hey," and then he seems to stall out for a moment.

Six leaves him to it and checks the cupboards, and yeah, he remembered right. Still some of each kind of ration packet. He doesn't much care for the red ones, and Two likes them, so he might as well leave them for her. Which means his only decision is: green, or blue? There's more of the green ones, so he wouldn't have to feel guilty about taking one—but he doesn't mind the blue, and the sooner they get rid of those, the better. He wavers for a minute, and then finally sighs and snags a blue packet by the corner.

"Wow, really?"

"They're not that bad," Six says, in case that'll make it true. "Need some pepper, that's all."

Three watches him dole out three precise shakes of pepper with narrowed eyes, and then says, "Hey, whatever floats your boat." And then he nudges Six with a less-than-subtle elbow, and adds, "And I mean that. You need some stress relief or whatever, I'm your guy—"

What the hell. "Are you serious?" Six says.

"Hey, worked for Two," Three says, with a wink. "I'm sure she'd be more than willing to provide me with a reference on request—"

Six stares at him for a long moment, and then picks up his plate and walks away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Six leaves the ship's mess reasonably full, if not especially satisfied. He heads back to his quarters, idly thinking over some of the research he'd meant to do on the rules and procedures of the League of Autonomous Worlds—he might have left the colonies, but that doesn't mean he can't still be of some kind of help to them.

He keys in his code and his door opens, and Three is lying on his bed.

Six stares.

He knows, rationally, that there must be some kind of explanation for this. Three just—just got turned around, went into the wrong set of quarters; Six must have left the door set on "stay open" accidentally. Something like that. Something that makes sense, something that doesn't have anything to do with Three—Three _wanting_ to be in Six's—

"Hm?" Three scrunches his face up, rubs his cheek idly against the bedcovers and hums again, and then squints up at Six. "You—oh, hey, you're here."

Not a mistake. A prank, then. Some sort of joke Three meant to play, and then he'd locked himself in here by accident. That's all.

"Takes you longer than I realized, when you don't get interrupted," Three adds, nonsensical, stretching himself out with a sigh, draping his arms across Six's pillows. "I have to tell you, I'm surprised. I figured the problem was going to be you doing me grievous bodily harm, not you just—not believing me. Because the thing is, I _know_ you'd enjoy it, if you let me. I remember. You let me touch you, you didn't shove me off or—"

"What the hell are you talking about," Six says, flat and chilly, not actually asking.

Three pauses, mouth still half open, and then waves a hand, dismissive. "Yeah, no, you're right, I shouldn't have said that. That was weird. Look, the point is, I'm fantastically attractive! You've got—well, frankly spectacular shoulders, even if you're kind of a stick-in-the-mud. What do you say?"

He gives Six a shit-eating grin, crosses his legs at the ankle and tucks a hand behind his head like he's some kind of tragically lazy pinup; and Six looks at him and has to fight with sudden intensity to control the overpowering urge to beat his face in.

Because he doesn't know what he's saying. He doesn't realize what he's doing, dangling this in front of Six. He doesn't mean it as the cruel half-formed taunt it is. Because it's so, so close to everything Six doesn't quite let himself think about: Three in his room, in his bed, relaxed and grinning and throwing out smug shitty pickup lines; so close but so goddamn fucking far, the uncrossable distance between the two empty as vacuum.

"I say get off my bed," Six tells him, soft and even. "Get off my bed, get out of my quarters, and leave me the fuck alone."

Three blinks, swallowing, and sits up, raising his hands defensively. "Okay," he says carefully, "okay, don't need to tell me twice—"

"Just go," Six says, looking away and lifting a hand to rub at his eyes; and he waits until he hears the door close behind Three before he lets his hand drop, lets his face twist up the way it wants to.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Six has just walked into the ship's mess when he realizes Three's already there; their heads jerk up at the same moment, and Six slows and doesn't know why until he has a second to really examine Three's face. There's something almost—wary, in Three's eyes. Strange.

But Three won't like it if Six draws attention to it. "Hey," Six says to him instead, easy and casual, and goes for the cupboard with the ration packets.

"Hey," Three echoes, and then, after a second, "Take a green one."

What? "What?"

"A green one," Three repeats. "There's plenty. You like the green ones better, right?"

"Somebody's got to eat the blue ones," Six says. But he _does_ like the green ones better. And there are plenty of them. He might have taken one even if Three hadn't said anything.

Ration packets are forgiving by design; they can be eaten heated or unheated, with water added or without. Feels weird to think about going through all the steps of preparing one with Three watching him like this, so Six doesn't bother. He just puts the contents on a plate, digs out a fork for himself, and then sits down.

He still adds some pepper, though. Three shakes, like always.

He glances up, and yeah, Three's still watching him. Not with that strained uncertain look from before, though; just watching, intent, narrow-eyed. "Three shakes," he says.

Six shrugs. "Four's too many, two's not enough."

"Control freak," Three murmurs, not unkindly.

Six gives him a steady even look, and jabs his fork down pointedly for a first mouthful of green ration packet.

"No, hey, you do you," Three says. "You make it look good," and then he stops and coughs and darts a funny little sideways look at Six.

Any other time, Six would've been pissed. But any other time, Three would've said that on purpose—would've made some kind of ridiculous show of it, just to be an ass. The way it slipped out is almost sweet by comparison.

"Aw, honey," Six says mildly, straightfaced.

Three's eyebrows shoot up, and then he barks out a disbelieving little laugh. "Really? _That_ 's the one that works?"

"What?"

"Never mind," Three says, flicking his fingers dismissively. "Look, you—you want some coffee?"

Six eyes him. On the one hand, accepting offers like that from Three out of nowhere is always a risk. On the other hand, nothing about Three's expression suggests he's planning to spit in the coffee first.

"Sure," he says slowly.

Three pours it, brings two cups back over and slides one almost tentatively over toward Six's side of the table, and when Six takes it their fingertips brush for a second; probably just his imagination, that Three looks a little pink in the face after. When Three settles back into his seat, their knees are touching.

Six doesn't move away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Six is walking toward the ship's mess when a smell reaches him; the smell first, and then a clinking of dishes.

He slows, but keeps walking, and when he steps into the mess, Three looks up and flashes him a lopsided little smile. "Hey," he says. "I was just heating up a couple ration packets. You want some?"

Six raises an eyebrow, and then glances down. Looks like ration packet, smells like ration packet, but it seems like Three's actually taking the time to reconstitute them properly—water added, heating them up, the whole nine yards. Ration packets are never really _good_ , but the more care you take with them, the more they improve.

"Sure," Six says, a little warily.

Three seems to catch it, and rolls his eyes. "I didn't spit in it, I promise," he says. "Or do—anything else, for that matter." He indicates the contents of the pan, which are definitely made up of more than one ration packet. "I'm eating it, too."

"Right," Six says. He feels briefly bad for assuming the worst, but Three doesn't seem to be holding it against him—he's just shaking his head and stirring, whistling a little. Which is, Six thinks, pretty goddamn weird. Not bad, just—weird. "You're in a good mood today, huh?"

Three glances over his shoulder at Six and shrugs a little. "Tried everything else," he murmurs, cryptic. "Can't stay maudlin and drunk forever. Figured it was time for something different."

"Mmhmm." Six hesitates. He hadn't thought Three had been struggling with anything, but maybe that just means he hasn't been paying attention; "maudlin and drunk" sounds pretty bad, and if Three's been going off drinking alone— "You know," he says carefully, "if there's ever anything—wrong, you can talk to me about it. If you need to."

And Three looks at him with a strange intent expression, eyes narrowed, gaze flicking back and forth over Six's face like he's not quite sure what he's seeing. "Yeah," Three says. "So you've told me."

"Well—good," Six says, looking away, trying to ignore the unsteady thump of his heart and not entirely succeeding.

He's not quite sure why he does it, except that all his reasons not to seem suddenly less than compelling. He walks over to the table to grab the pepper, and then lets himself step up behind Three at the counter—not too close, not in a way that he suddenly thinks could be categorized as dangerous; just a brush, a shadow of warmth, his chest against Three's shoulderblade as he leans in—

And he _is_ close enough to hear something that might just be the sound of Three's breath catching for a second in his throat.

He doles out three shakes as Three stirs, and then backs away just a little when he sets the pepper down.

But not far enough to miss the way Three snorts.

"What?"

"Three," Three says, and turns to raise an eyebrow at Six, smirking. "Always three. You like that number, huh? Trying to tell me something?"

Six rolls his eyes, but he feels his mouth twitch, a laugh trying to escape. "It's the right amount," he says mildly. "Four's too many—"

"—and two's not enough," Three murmurs with a grin, as though Six has said it to him before. "But three's exactly what you want."

"I wouldn't go that far," Six says, in a dubious tone, and making a dubious face to match; but he doesn't mean it, not really, and the way Three smiles at him, pure wicked delight, says Three knows it.

"What? I'm just talking about the pepper," Three says, face a parody of sincerity until he cracks it apart with a laugh. "Almost done—grab us some plates, huh?"

"Sure," Six says, and takes a chance: leans in again to get some out of the upper cabinet instead of the lower one—and lets his hand settle, as if without thinking about it, against Three's back, the line of muscle down one side, Six's thumb against his spine.

And Three doesn't shake him off, doesn't crack some ridiculous joke; just goes still under it, and then presses back into it and sucks in an unsteady breath.

Six pulls out the plates and then lets his hand skim down Three's back for a moment before he moves away toward the table. He can't help shaking his head at himself, at how little it takes to make this eager bright gladness light up in his chest; but he can't quite stop smiling, either.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Six is sitting in the ship's mess, just polishing off a plate of less-than-appealing blue ration packet, when Three comes in.

"Hey," he says.

Six glances up at him and gives him a little nod. "Hey," he says.

His tone is perfectly normal, neutral; but Three stares at him a moment longer, mouth flattening, and then bites at his lip and looks away. He keeps walking toward the table, but slower now, the line of his shoulders bowed unhappily, and he lowers himself into a chair with a sigh, almost too faint for Six to catch.

"Should've fucking known," he says, soft and a little vicious, and puts his head in his hands. "Fuck."

Six eyes him uncertainly—but he can't keep it up for too long. Conspicuous inattention always seems to work better with Three than talking to him.

Except Three picked the chair right across from Six. Even coming from him, that's got to be an invitation.

Six keeps looking at him long enough to catalogue the rest of it: the way he's wrapped his hands around the nape of his neck, squeezing a little like maybe he's got a headache; the way he's breathing, choppy and unsteady. And then Six turns his gaze studiously back to the table, and, as if the answer isn't important to him at all, says gently, "You okay?"

"What?" Three says absently.

Six taps his fork once, twice, against the edge of his plate. Talking never works with Three, he reminds himself sternly. Not for him.

Except Three's sitting across from him looking like he's got the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders, and Six can't just pretend he doesn't see it. He can't.

"You okay?" he says again, carefully. "If there's something wrong, even if it isn't anything I can help with—you know you could tell me, right?"

Across the table, Three suddenly goes still. Six braces himself, expecting any number of things—for Three to be angry with him for prying, maybe, to tell him to fuck the fuck out of Three's business and leave Three alone; or maybe for Three to laugh at him, to act like it makes no sense for Six to be asking, like they aren't even friends. Like it's ridiculous to think they could be.

But instead, Three just looks up. He looks up, right at Six, gaze flicking back and forth across Six's face; his brow is drawing down a little, but it's not a frown, because his eyes, his mouth, are soft, open, wondering. "Wait a minute," he says slowly. "Wait just one fucking minute. You really do give a shit about me, don't you?"

Six blinks. "What?"

"You really do," Three says again, more firmly. "Because you don't know anything, you don't remember any of the other ones. I haven't even made lunch for you yet, and you're still—"

"What?" Six says—bewildered, now, because if Three had ever _made him lunch_ he'd sure as fuck remember it, but Three's not interested in explaining himself. Three's already up and out of his chair, slapping one hand decisively against the table before he turns for the door.

"Sorry," he says over his shoulder, "sorry, I just have to spend like three more weeks with the robot and then I bet I can get this shit figured out—"

"Three—"

"No, hey, it's fine," Three says, pausing in the doorway for a second. "It's all good, I get it now. And I'm going to break this fucking loop if it's the last thing I do—" He stops, looking thoughtful. "Well, no, not the last thing, because the point of breaking it is for me to get to do more things—never mind. Don't worry about it. I got this," and he winks and gives Six a goddamn finger gun, and then is gone.

"What," Six says again, to the empty doorway, just because it bears repeating. Because: _what_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Six is sitting in the ship's mess, staring at the wall, trying to get his head around it. A time loop. A _time loop_. One that had been running long enough for Three to—to learn French, to understand the ship's systems well enough to help the _android_. Which had to mean months, at the absolute least. Months no one else could remember, months that hadn't happened for anyone except Three.

He sighs out a slow breath, rubbing a hand across his mouth, and then someone steps in through the doorway and he looks up.

"Hey," Three says.

"Hey," Six says back automatically.

Three studies him for a second, mouth twitching. "You look like you got a few questions you want to ask me."

"Well— _yeah_ ," Six blurts out. "I—you—" and then he makes himself stop and get a grip. Honestly, he's not even sure what he wants to ask first, so after a moment, he settles on something light. "Don't suppose you took the opportunity to shoot me in the head."

"What? No," Three says, looking sort of startled; and then he shakes his head and chuckles a little. "No, not exactly," he repeats, more wryly, and then he meets Six's eyes again and shrugs, casual. "Not in the _head_ , anyway."

Six snorts and shakes his head, and belatedly looks down at his plate. He'd grabbed himself a ration packet—he can't even remember what color it was—but he's hardly touched it; he just put it on his plate and then came over here and sat down, to stare at the wall.

He picks up his fork.

"Hang on," Three says. "Hang on, you forgot the pepper," and he steps up to the table, grabs the pepper, and before Six can so much as say a word, he's leaned over Six's plate and tapped out one shake, two—three.

And then he stops, and sets it back down.

"Four's too much," he adds easily, "and two's—uh." He swallows, apparently having realized all at once exactly how weird this looks to Six. "Two's—not enough," he finishes feebly.

Six stares at him. "How many times have you lived this day?" he says, slow.

Three stares back for a long moment, rubbing a hand awkwardly against the nape of his neck. "A lot," he says at last, looking away.

"Must've been weird," Six offers. "All the things you must've done, and no one else remembering any of it."

Three swallows. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah. You can say that again."

And it probably won't do any good, not with Three, but Six can't think what else to do. "Well," he says, "if you ever, you know, want to talk about it—if you decide you want to tell somebody—"

 _Tell me. Tell me, I want to hear it_ , but that'll sound weird, won't it? That'll sound like—well, like the truth: like exactly what Six has always wanted from Three. To be trusted by him at last, even after everything with the GA. To be told something that matters to him.

Six shakes his head at himself once, sharply, irritated, and then looks up at Three, who's probably about to tell him where he can shove that particular suggestion.

Except Three's just looking back at him with sudden close attention, intent. "Yeah," Three says slowly, "maybe. Not, like, now. But—yeah. Thanks."

Six blinks. "Sure," he says. "Anytime. That offer stays open. Okay?"

"Yeah," Three repeats, and smiles at him just a little; and, feeling warm and embarrassingly pleased, Six can't help but smile back.

 

 

 

They break the loop.

There's a lot to go through, afterward—everything the android saw, everything it means, and what if anything can be done about it. But Three seems fine, pretty much.

Which is why Six is surprised to pass his quarters later and hear what sounds like a pretty serious ruckus.

He hesitates outside, just listening. After all that, Three's probably entitled to a bit of a breakdown if he wants to have one. But—

But the last time he had a bit of a breakdown, he put a gun to his head, and if Five had been any slower getting his door open for Six, he'd have used it. Hard to forget a thing like that.

So it's not really out of line, Six thinks, for Six to want to make sure he hasn't hurt himself.

Six waits for a break in the clattering, and then knocks sharply. "Three?"

A pause; and then a muffled round of swearing, a bang; and then the door opens, Three leaning against the frame and swiping his hair out of his eyes. "Yeah? What? Something up?"

Six raises an eyebrow at him. "Getting a little noisy in there."

"Oh—yeah," Three says, glancing over his shoulder at the mess of crap strewn all over his floor. He gestures to it with a proud flourish. "Just letting off a little steam. Plus if it's still there next time I wake up, that means it's really over."

Six eyes it, and then him. "And then you have to clean it up."

"Well, yeah," Three admits. "But I have to tell you, at this point I'd prefer that to finding out I'm still stuck on the merry-go-round."

"Fair enough," Six says with a nod, and starts to back away.

"No, hey, wait," Three says. "Wait, hold up. Hold up a minute."

"Hm?"

"That thing you said." Three looks at Six and then away, scratches at the back of his neck and shifts his weight. "About talking to you—wait. Was that this time? Or—"

"That was this time," Six assures him. "I remember."

Three blows out a breath. "Okay. Okay, good. So, yeah, that thing you said, about talking to you. I've been thinking about that, and I figured out that what it boils down to is—well.

"It fucking sucked. And it _shouldn't_ have, because I could—I could do anything, right? I had all the time in the world. Didn't get older, didn't get sick, couldn't stay injured for more than a day. Nothing ever had to go wrong, if I didn't let it. Nothing was unpredictable, nothing was dangerous."

"Sure," Six agrees, because—yeah. When Three says it like that, it doesn't sound half bad. At least for a while.

"But nothing—nothing _happened_ ," Three says. "Ten thousand fucking days, and nothing happened. Nothing _could_ happen. I could do whatever I wanted, except none of it stuck, none of it meant anything, because it was all just going to zero out again the next time. I could do whatever I wanted, _except_ the stuff that mattered."

Six looks at him and feels a sudden uncertain prickle of something like anticipation. Is it ridiculous to think he's saying this to Six for a reason? It must just be because Six offered, that's all. It doesn't mean he's working up to anything, or—or—

"Like what," Six hears himself say, low.

And Three opens his mouth and then closes it again, shakes his head and bites his lip and then reaches out. Wraps a hand around the back of Six's neck and pulls, leaning in himself, and—

"Hey," Six says, holding him off with a hand on his chest. "Wait a second—are you seriously telling me you tried to—"

"No!" Three says, and then grimaces a little. "Well, sort of. But that's the thing. It didn't work. Even when I didn't fuck it up—" He stops, swallowing, and his arm tenses against Six's shoulder. "Even when I didn't fuck it up, you just forgot. You always forgot again."

His voice goes weird, strange and distant and unhappy—like he's talking almost more to himself instead of Six. And that must have been what it felt like, Six thinks. All those days nobody else could remember, everything resetting over and over. Must have been goddamn lonely.

And that strikes Six with a pang that goes a lot deeper than it should. Thinking about Three like that, trying again and again, having to start from scratch every time.

"Won't forget this," Six murmurs, and leans in the rest of the way to kiss him.

It feels much too good, doing it—shutting Three up, for one, but also the sheer sweet indulgence of it. Six tries pretty hard not to do things just because he wants to do them, just because he can and he wants to and no one will stop him. But this—

There's no big moral question hanging in the balance, because of this. No life-and-death dilemma, nothing that's going to alter the course of the galaxy. Just Six, wanting something and getting it, licking into Three's smart smug mouth and listening to him gasp.

Three's fingers dig in at the nape of Six's neck, greedy, and just the thought that he's something Three might get greedy about is enough to make him smile, to make him break away and laugh.

"Oh, something funny?" Three murmurs in his ear, wry and breathless, already sliding his other hand under Six's shirt.

"Nah," Six murmurs, hooking a couple fingers in Three's waistband to tug him closer. "Just don't want you thinking this means I'm going to help you clean up your quarters later."

Three tilts his head, mock-thoughtful. "Mm, I don't know about that," he says, "I can be pretty convincing."

Six raises his eyebrows. "All right, then, convince me," he offers, bland, just so he can watch Three grin at him for it.

 

 

 


End file.
